Turned To Madness
by IsabellaImogen
Summary: A hidden romance which could conceivably fit into the 2004 movie plot and timeline. Rare Pairing oneshot.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the first of it's kind from me, really. Enjoy this probably before-unseen pairing. (I think there's one or two others out there, but I had trouble reading them and finding the pairings. Looked mostly like angst as seperate people than a relationshiptogether.) But who am I to talk relationships when there is sex to be had? Read on. (Note that this is supposed to fit entirely within the timeline of the 2004 movie. And it works. Srsly. Talk about your "secret plots". This totally happened. There issome_chemistry_ there.

* * *

"Please, Madame Giry. –For all our sakes!" The Vicomte pleaded softly, his warm, dry palm resting on her arm, staying her for a moment. Madame Giry's eyes dropped to the grip his hand held, lightly, on her forearm, his nervous heat burning through her thin sleeve. She flicked her gaze upwards for only an instant and saw the fear shining glassily in his eyes, along with some small hope that she may be able to help.

Her mouth fell open slightly, barely for a second, and she glanced uneasily up and down the empty passage.

_Forgive me, Erik._

"Very well," she said lowly, turning into her apartments. He followed silently, and she suppressed a shudder as the door clicked shut softly behind him. Turning, she threw a glance at him, and he reached back and turned the key in the lock.

She pretended not to notice, but was thankful for the care he took in keeping the secrecy of their conversation.

_Why is he here, really?_

She crossed to the low-burning floor lamp and turned up the gas flame, which lit the room in a mottled, crimson light that streamed dimly through the heavily embossed shade.

Madame Giry looked at the young Vicomte for a moment, then swallowed and walked to her armoire, her hands fumbling for something to do. She set the small lamp she carried on the chest, and fastened her eyes on the pictures she kept in frames. Her fingertips brushed the bundles of letters, fastened with faded ribbon, letters from long ago, desperate to remind herself of how old she felt she ought to feel.

"I was very young, then," she whispered, not daring to look at Raoul, but giving him a chance to let her words sink in. _Let him go now. Let him know. Let him recall who we are._

She turned and gazed at Raoul for a moment, who only returned the glance with equal frankness, boldly meeting her eyes, blankly, expectantly. She shook her head slightly and closed her eyes, sitting wearily on the chaise longe across from the smaller chair where the Vicomte had seated himself on the cushion's edge, eager for what she had to tell.

Neither could tell what time had passed since she had begun her tale. At times her narrative had sunken into silence as she lost herself in the memories, as she sought for words to lessen the severity of what had been done. The Vicomte was patient and kindly silent throughout. Neither noted the opera house around them gradually falling silent as the revelers made their ways to bed.

"He is a genius…" she said, desperately. "A genius, monsieur." _Please, _she thought. _Please don't do this. Don't challenge him. No good can come of it. If the Vicomte believes this Opera Ghost to be too dangerous…_

But he _would_ be chivalrous and hardheadedly brave. Too noble to let his fiancée be taken. Secret or not, Madame Giry had known of it from the first. Age had its advantages—wisdom and insight being two of them.

"But clearly, Madame Giry—" She met his gaze, her tears choking her pleas and threatening to slide down her cheeks. "Genius has turned to madness," he said slowly, knowing there was no way else to put it. She knew he was right.

She glanced down at her hands clasped in her lap, and suddenly the tears were too much. She brought her hands to her face and wept into her palms, unable to bear the sad longing to be young again, to make the choices she made with the knowledge she had now! She could have done more for Erik…she could have done more to prevent this.

Raoul moved to sit beside her, placing a supportive arm around her as she turned her face into his shoulder, her shoulders shuddering with sobs. He rested his cheek against her hair, which was still thick, brown and glossy as it had been in her youth. Madame Giry was secretly proud of her hair—which had fought off the aging grey coarseness that often came with the years. The eyes now shedding tears were still bright and clever, and in her still-smooth face which was pale with fear and regret there remained a soft stain of crimson spreading over the apples of her cheeks.

Raoul gently held Madame Giry, murmuring wordless comfort until the older woman's keening cries had slowed, then ceased. Still he held her, rocking her tenderly in his arms as she closed her eyes for a moment.

She tilted her face upwards and opened her eyes, summoning the smallest of smiles onto her tear-stained face.

"Thank you," she whispered, raising a hand to gently stroke the side of his face.

The world seemed suspended in a breathless hush as neither of them moved for a moment.

Then Raoul lowered his head to place his lips softly on hers, and she did nothing to stop him.

A small gasp escaped her lips as warmth seemed to flood her body. She angled her head towards his, allowing him to deepen the kiss slightly. His arms encircled her body lightly, his hands pressing against the small of her back, drawing her in closer. Her hands traced the outline of his broad shoulders for a moment before one hand flattened against his chest, where she could feel his heartbeat racing her own, and the fingertips of her other hand slid almost hesitantly over his neck and tangled themselves in his silky hair.

She felt him freeze at this, and felt a twinge of pain somewhere inside herself. She couldn't lose this …not like this…not now. Carefully, she brushed her mouth against his once more, this time parting her lips ever so slightly, and the invitation was enough for him to delve into her mouth with his tongue, and his arms sweetly crushed her to him once more.

She let go, inch by inch, wary of losing him if she gave too much or too little at any moment, until she felt the last icy vestiges of his reserve melt away in the heat that sprang up between them. With a small, mewling cry she abandoned herself to the sensations rocketing through her veins with all the subtlety of a horn signaling the beginning of a hunt, and the baying hounds of their mutual desire began to howl for the satisfaction their blood craved.

She twined her arms around his neck and pulled herself closer to him. She had the strength of a dancer but all the delicacy of a well-bred woman, too. She had fascinated some part of him since the beginning. She sensed his willing confusion and would have smiled secretly had she found the strength or the inclination. She was certain the young Vicomte was untried as a young girl, despite the many houses of ill-and-better repute several noblemen and their sons frequented, often before reaching the age of twenty. But le Vicomte de Chagny, she had found, was different. It was not for lack of passion—no, she knew that now—but perhaps for lack of connection. He was one of those rare men who require a level of understanding before a level of intimacy can be reached. No courtesan or two-franc whore would ever be enough for this man. He loved Christine Daae, yes, and he would bed her, once married—should Erik be foiled in his plans.

Madame Giry balked at where her thoughts had led her, and for only a moment she considered how this might affect his future with Christine.

_It won't_, she insisted to herself. She hadn't planned this, nor, she assumed, had he. Of course it would never be more than this; for this was enough. It had to be enough.

She slid her hands under the costume-jacket he had worn to the bal masque, tearing some of the fastenings open in her haste to push it off. By now he was just as eager as she, and only needed some vague encouragement from the older woman who was now going to teach him the ways of love in a carnal fashion, and in doing so, gain some selfish personal consequence in her own mind. _To feel young again._

A small, musical clattering brought her slightly to her senses, rousing her from the delicious play of mouth upon mouth, teeth, lips and tongues. Her hairpins and Oriental ornaments scattered across the rugs and bare wooden floor, rolling under tables and chairs. Her heavy hair uncoiled and fell around her shoulders. Raoul's hands slid down her shoulders, divesting her of her kimono-like gown embroidered in black and gold.

His lips left a trail of hot, light kisses down the pale, strong column of her throat, and she let her head fall back against the cushions of the chaise. His fingers flicked impatiently at the small buttons that fastened the bodice of her dress, and she slid a hand between their bodies to help tug the dress away from her body. It bunched around her hips, and she reached for him anyways, wanting his lips on hers once more before she forgot how it felt. Her hands slipped around the back of his head and she arched up towards him, and he obliged her by taking her mouth in a heated, crushing kiss that felt as though he might draw out her heart through her lips.

Their mouths melded and fought against one another as his hands worked between them to slide her dress off over her hips. He drew back for a moment to yank his shirt off over his head and lean over her once more, pushing her back against the chaise as he placed warm kisses on her bare shoulders, making her gasp.

He drew her further underneath his body, and lay atop her, and she welcomed the weight of him, boldly thrusting her own tongue back into the heated cavern of his mouth, needing the heady, spiced taste of him, of smoke and whiskey and something savoury and dark. It had been so long, too long.

She kicked off her shoes, and he stripped off her stockings in a single motion that caused her to burn somewhere deep inside. Her corset strings had come loose, and he tugged at the whalebone torture device that drew in her waist to such a small diameter then flared out smoothly over her hips. Her corset finally came off, and crumpled beneath their bodies as he pulled her chemise off her shoulders to finally expose her breasts.

She crimsoned and tried to turn away, slightly, as he beheld her bosom that was nothing like a young girls', not pert, but heavy and sagging slightly with age and motherhood in years gone by.

"No," he murmured, laying a hand gently on her shoulder and pushing her back. He leaned forward and placed small kisses all over her face, settling on her mouth for a moment before he spoke again. "You're beautiful. You are beautiful. Please."

Tears began to gather in her eyes anew, and she kissed him deeply, gratefully, lovingly. She cradled his head in her arms as he moved lower and began to lavish kisses on her breasts, gasping as he drew his lips and tongue across the hardened tips. Neither of them could tell who moaned first, and then it ceased to matter. She grasped his hips with her drawn-up knees, and felt, for the first time, the long, hard length of him pressing against her stomach through the folds of fabric as his hands glided over her skin and up the bare length of her strongly muscled dancer's legs to tug away the frilled underthings that stood between their flesh.

Her petticoats bunched around her waist, but neither of them cared. She knew neither of them had much longer to wait, and she ran her hands over his bare chest and back with increasingly frantic motions. Her palms slid down to his hips, where she fought at the clasp to his trousers, and he helped her to at last release him from the last confines of his cloathing. She still wore her chemise and rucked-up petticoats, but this was all they needed.

He rose above her for a moment, and looked at her uncertainly. She pulled him closer and raised her hips to let him enter her. She had thought he would thrust into her quickly and be done with it, as any young man might upon their first encounter. Yet he seemed gripped in a curious sort of wonder, and only went partway inside of her.

"More," she murmured in a strangled tone, arching her spine and pressing her breasts against his chest, where her hardened nipples scraped softly against the scattered hair on his chest, exciting them both to some kind of madness. Slowly, slowly, he allowed himself to gain further entrance to her body, and a long, low moan escaped her helpless lips as he filled her utterly.

She felt unable to breathe for a long moment, and her lips felt dry and cracked. Somewhere a pulse beat strong, but she couldn't tell if it was in her body or his or both. Her head fell back against the chaise and she gloried in the feeling of a strong, virile body next to hers, on top of hers, inside of hers, after so long. She inhaled the scent of his sweat, his musk, mingling with the light eau de toilette she had worn for the evening. As she gradually regained some of her senses, she felt that he was frozen and unmoving, his elbows locked and trembling on either side of her. She'd forgotten he'd need some kind of instruction here, no doubt too lost in what he was feeling to know where to go next.

"Now," she whispered, curling her fingers around the back of his neck and pulling him towards her gently for a reassuring kiss. "Now," she repeated, sliding her hands to his chest and pushing back on him. He withdrew quickly, making her hiss slightly, and would have left her completely, but she managed to shake her head slightly and draw him back, her hands gripping his back and hitching him forward once more. "Again, now…" she continued to murmur encouragement and instructions as he began to find a pace, a rhythm that worked for them both. She rocked her hips lightly against his, allowing their lovemaking to be slow and tender, rather than the fast, burnt-out rush she'd imagined and been able to accept as good enough. This was a surprise, a sweet surprise; and she wondered why she hadn't thought of it this way before. He was so rare, so sweet, and so surprising, to her.

His hands gripped her hips, as she moved up to meet his slow, gentle thrusts. He slid his palms underneath her, cupping her buttocks under her warm, sweet-scented layers of soft petticoats, lifting her against him, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching as her drew her entire lower body up off the chaise and onto him. Her legs locked around his hips for support, and he knelt at the end of the chaise, moving deep inside her and controlling her movements by holding her hips against his. She tossed her head restlessly on the chaise and moaned slightly, reaching for him.

He came down to meet her and wrapped his arms around her bare back. She coiled her arms around his neck and kissed him, even as they were still deeply joined. She pulled herself against him and he drew back onto his knees, pulling her with him. Her legs still wrapped around his body, she sat in his lap and plyed his mouth with hot, gentle kisses, gently biting his full lower lip now and then as her fingers wove themselves into her hair. She moved against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest and letting the full length of him move within her.

They stayed like that for what seemed like an age; a gentle, timeless age where they floated in nothing but sensation and discovery and re-discovery of what was possible between a man and a woman. Her forehead rested against his shoulder, and her hair fell about them like a curtain, and he stroked the brown, silky locks, smoothing his hands over her shoulders and arms time after time until he held her hips once more, moving her in a rhythm to match their desire.

At last it became too much, and she leaned back slightly, then sped her pace of moving atop him, pushing against each other faster and harder than they had done. Cries and groans of pleasure and frustration began to issue from their mouths when they had no kisses to muffle them, and she dug her nails into his back, spurring him to thrust faster and farther.

When neither could stand it any longer, Raoul rocked her back onto the chaise

and laid her out before him. She drew her knees apart and pulled him against her, where he began to thrust rapidly, deeply into her, drawing louder and louder cries of writhing delight from both of them. It grew to such a feverish pace that neither noticed the chaise beginning to slide back and forth on the floor. Raoul slipped slightly, and they both fell a short distance to the floor, where they had knocked several cushions onto the rug, pillowing their fall. She landed on top of him and straddled him instantly, rocking her hips against his and shuddering as he gripped her buttocks and ran his hands along her thighs.

Gripping her to him, he rolled over so that she lay beneath him, and he thrust into her several times before she went rigid and gave a long, drawn-out cry as she rushed over the peak of pleasure and felt the world begin to slowly collapse around her. She bucked and trembled underneath him, and he felt some intense kind of building as she pulsed and shuddered around him, only to be hit moments later by some blinding white release that he thought would break him in two. His hoarse cry covered her receding moans as he lanced into her and she felt his hot liquid explosion deep inside her that sent them both into a realm of languid stupor as they waited and wondered if their heartbeats would ever be slow again.

What seemed like hours later, Madame placed her palms on the Vicomte's broad shoulders and pulled herself away from him. There was a soft sound of flesh moving against flesh as she pushed him to withdraw, their skins bonded and clinging gently together with sweat and semen until they sprang apart and the air that hit them suddenly seemed cold.

She hitched herself backwards and began to pull her petticoats down from their rucked-up bundling at her waist. She stood and turned her back to Raoul, who lay on his side on the floor, propped up on one elbow, staring at her unblinkingly, his shoulders still shaking in the aftermath.

"You should go…" she said.

Wordlessly, he stood and gathered his clothes. She bit her lower lip fiercely and ran the tip of her tongue over it, still able to taste him and fighting that pain with this pain.

Finally, she dared to glance over her shoulder at him. He stood, clad in boots, breeches, his shirt untucked, his cravat loosely draped around his neck, his waistcoat and jacket folded in his hands. He fumbled with them, staring blankly at the floor as though his hands were still stumbling in virgin ecstasy over her body, unsure of what to do with them. She turned towards him.

"Would you—" His gaze shot upwards to meet hers, and she paused, her hand absently rubbing at the whalebones in the loosened corset she still wore. She cleared her throat lightly and turned from him again, speaking over her shoulder. "Would you please help me with this?"

"Of course, …Madame Giry." He looked at the chaise for a moment, then turned and laid his jacket and waistcoat on the armchair opposite, the armchair they hadn't touched. He slowly approached her from behind and laid a hand on her bare shoulder.

"Please, Monsieur. My corset?" She set her jaw and closed her eyes as he obeyed and tugged viciously at the strings, making her suppress a gasp as the familiar pinching grasp of the corset took her more forcibly than usual. He tied the final knot in the strings and she felt strong again, unbending, unyielding. She shouldn't have been so weak before.

"Thank you, Monsi—" Madame Giry was cut off as Raoul gripped her waist and turned her to face him, crushing her mouth in a bruising kiss that he wanted to hurt her, and it did. She cried out, tears springing to her eyes, but willingly opened her lips under his brutal retribution for what she'd done to him, to both of them. Gradually, the kiss became softer, their fires blazing high until they crumbled to ash in an instant, until their lips were barely touching. "Please Monsieur le Vicomte. No more."

He looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, his eyes dark and she felt he was staring through her rather than at her. Then he nodded.

"Yes," he said, spitting out the word on a rush of breath. "Yes, no more. No more." He turned and walked away, picking up his outer garments from the armchair. "I…I don't even know your Christian name, Madame."

"It is best that we do not bother with such informality, Monsieur."

He gave a harsh laugh.

"You speak of being too informal after something such as this?"

"Informality and intimacy are of separate houses, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said, her brow furrowed in slight annoyance at his brash youthful misunderstanding. _Of course he would feel this too deeply,_ she thought. "And bear in mind that there will be nothing of this sort between us in the future."

"I am aware of that, _Madame_," he said, spitting out the title with a vulgar, tawdry inflection that made her palm itch to slap his face. She calmed her temper inwardly after a moment. After all, the poor boy was confused and shaken after what they had done. She'd been the same way with her husband for the first few weeks of her marriage—only ladylike delicacy had kept her from spewing the barbed points of anger and confusion at the unsuspecting cause of her awkwardness. "It is hardly the thing for a nobleman."

"And yet you will marry a chorus girl."

His mouth opened for a moment, but no sound came forth, so she continued:

"You love her. We both know that." She pursed her lips thoughtfully and went on. "You and I respect each other too much, Monsieur, to say insulting things we do not mean as a result of this. This was my choice and—to a point—it was yours as well. I would not call it seduction, Monsieur, no. I know you have too much self-control to allow yourself to be handled so by a woman two times your age. There was never a point where you could not say no."

"You say that…"

"It is the truth, Monsieur." He gazed at her, with a wistful, almost sad expression.

"Then why did I lose myself somewhere with you?" he whispered, smiling fondly at her and turning his face away as a tear caught in his eyelashes.

"Oh hush now," she went to him and pressed her cheek to his, cradling his head in her hands, rocking him slightly, like he was her child. "You will be confused, Monsieur, at least for a little while. But in the end, all will be well."

"Everything will be as it was before?"

She smiled and shook her head, tears gathering in her own eyes now.

"Nothing ever is as it was before, Monsieur." He said nothing. "But, God willing, you will marry Christine, and you will be happy. She loves you."

"And you?"

"I do not love you, Monsieur." She saw the look on his face and even laughed softly. "I see you are relieved, Monsieur. It was only your own heart you were risking, and I knew it was safe within Christine's keeping, as it always will be."

He sat in the armchair and looked a little chastened.

"You seem to know more about me than I do about myself."

"You will come to know as much in time, about yourself and others. I claim no extraordinary wisdom aside from what age has granted me."

"What do I tell Christine?" he asked in a dejected tone.

"We will tell her nothing. No one will be hurt by this, Monsieur. You know now how women are, in general, and how I am, in particular—which will allow you to better please and know Christine as your wife, Monsieur. At least one of any pair ought to have some experience of lovemaking—it avoids an embarrassing episode if one knows what they are doing. And you have made me feel young again, cherished again. You have given me a great gift, Monsieur, just as I have given knowledge to you." Her hand cupped his face and he managed a smile as he placed his hand over hers.

"Thank you, Madame Giry," he said softly. She bent over him as he sat and tilted his face up to hers and places a soft, lingering kiss upon his lips.

"And thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte." She straightened and went to the door of her room, opened it, and glanced into the empty hallway. The gas light flickered and she shivered, recalling where they were and who might be about. She turned back to face Raoul.

"You must go," she said, the urgency in her voice causing him to rise from his seat. "Now. She needs someone to watch over her—you know the dangers of her guardian "Angel", Monsieur. You must go."

"Of course." He strode to the door and stopped beside her and looked into her face. She half-smiled, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, bracingly rather than sexually.

"Goodbye, Madame Giry."

"Goodbye, Monsieur le Vicomte." He quietly made his way swiftly down the hall towards the dormitories to take up a post outside Christine's door. His fatigue would eventually overtake him, however, and his sated body and taxed mind fell into a slumber that was not broken when Christine slipped out the door, past him, and down the curving staircase.

Madame Giry retreated into her room after Raoul had gone, but found sleep to be impossible. She sat before her mirror for hours in the grey, chilly dawn after the bal masque which now seemed to have happened so long ago. She traced every line of her skin, ever inch of her face with her fingertips, then plaited her hair again and gathered up her hairpins, but she did not pin her hair up. She crumpled it into a heavy knot at the back of her neck and gazed at her reflection, twisting her neck this way and that, letting the cold light beginning to stream through the windows slither over her skin as Raoul's adoring fingertips had done earlier. She did not hear Christine's footsteps in the passage outside her room moving towards the stables. A while later she was roused from her reverie by a pair of pounding boots running down the narrow corridor, and though it was still early, she paid them no mind as Raoul rushed past the room, having already forgotten the bulk of what had passed behind that door only hours previously, intent on protecting the woman he loved no matter the cost.

* * *

Years later, their eyes met over the dust-covered ruins in the opera house foyer. A smile and a nod spoke all they needed to say to one another. I will not say it then was finished, for it had finished years ago. And it was enough. 


	2. Addendum

Sorry—in reading over it I noticed a glaring continuity error with her corset. Damn things. If anyone feels strongly enough about it to want me to go back and change it and re-submit this whole thing, let me know and I will. But—just so you know, I don't have a beta and so that was unintentional and entirely my fault for not editing closely enough.


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